Pregopause

(Heads-up to Guys:  Perimenopausal comments contained within...you may not want to go there, but you might learn something important about women.)

Written a few months ago, here are some thoughts on a period of my life I call "Pregopause." I just worked up the nerve to post it. :-)

The day before was just like any other day, nothing special, just a day.  I did not know it was a significant dash on the timeline of my life, marking the last day of youth, or I would have paused to enjoy it.  What can I say? I was young and didn’t know any better.  With no fanfare, I turned 50.  I felt no different and looked no different, so I dressed up in some feel good clothes, fixed my hair and makeup, and thought, “Man, you look pretty good for fifty.”  Snapping a Facebook worthy picture with my phone, I texted it to my husband, accompanied by the words, “Fifty, bring it on!”  I didn’t know the whole world got the message… and took me seriously. 

IT began with a visit to the doctor for my annual exam.  “And your periods have stopped…menopause,” the nurse muttered as she typed on her laptop.  What?  I immediately corrected her assumption! The doctor completed the perfunctory chest exam with her stethoscope and, without warning, moved on to my neck.  What?  She started looking at my ankles, pushing places on my abdomen that she had never pushed before and ordering unnecessary blood tests.  Apparently, at fifty your warranty expires.  Who knew?

My husband started talking retirement while I was still worrying about pregnancy.  Many of my friends were fanning the hot flash hand, but I was still going strong on a monthly basis.  I started looking for signs. I thought I had night sweats for a while, but it turned out my Memory Foam mattress topper was just retaining heat.  I am stuck in a phase of life called “Pregopause,” my term for life between two fears: pregnancy and menopause.  A look on the CDC’s website did nothing to quell my anxiety.  There are over 500 live births per year to women in their fifties.  Yes, I want to be one of the few!  No, just kidding, God (in case he thinks I am serious, too).  

I broke a part of me while helping the music teacher at school hang a backdrop for the Christmas program:  I missed the last step of the stage and snapped a bone in my ankle.  Sympathetic looks were accompanied by the comfortless words, “Well, when you get to a certain age…” STOP!  A first grader in one of my classes had a broken leg.  Apparently six is that certain age, too.  A broken bone does not equal osteoporosis.  I am being dragged into old age by the nicest of people.

Two things gave me pause.  Mastitis, an infection in a milk duct in the breast, puts me into a fevered and chilled state.  Isn’t that a nursing mother’s issue?  Many tests later confirm a cyst in my breast, but all is declared fine.  Then, my period goes into overdrive, and five progesterone pills are required to slow it down.  Blood test results support my medical claim:  I really am in Pregopause!  According to my hormone levels I am not pregnant (slightly amusing thought), but I am also not in menopause.  It seems I am growing a small fibroid cyst, not a baby.  Somehow that doesn’t seem comforting. Of course, my so-called friends tisk-tisk and chalk it up to age-related changing hormones, sending more concerned, yet somehow joyous, looks my way.  Apparently, I need some new friends.

What I really need is a class. Just like when we were in school, at a certain age the boys need to be separated from the girls and each group shown a film about changes that will be occurring in their bodies.  It really is the same:  We giggle and whisper about it, only hearing hints and rumors about what is going to happen to each of us.  We dread and welcome it at the same time.  My doctor cheerfully said, “I bet you will be glad when you finally go into menopause – no more periods!”  My reply, “Yeah right, trade swollen breasts and periods once a month for a saggy chest and hot flashes – doesn’t sound like much of a trade off.”  She only smiled and snickered, knowing the truth in that statement.  I am glad she thought it was funny.

In spite of my protests, the truth is I know it is coming.  My physician sister says that at 53 I am past the 51.6 year average that marks the beginning of menopause for most women.  I don’t know how they determine that average since most women I know who have reached that age have had a hysterectomy or medical procedure that changes the natural progression of things. How large could their statistical sample actually be?  Everyone knows statisticians can’t be trusted.

The fight may be going out of me. Even my own flesh and blood, my traitorous daughter, joined the cause by blessing me with the most beautiful grandbaby on the planet, forcing me to choke on the “G” word and pick a name:  Grandma, Granny, Gram… who will I be?  One of my friends has the interesting name of Gumball for her “G” word: cute, but not for me.  Too round.  After a year of trying out “Grammy,” my grand daughter dubbed me “Ninee,” saving me from the “G” word but not the implications.  Now I am blessed with an equally beautiful second grandbaby, and I am not so secretly content with my status of grandmother.  Would you like to browse for a moment the 1000+ pictures on my phone?

Maybe I am changing, but I would like to quietly enjoy my body giving a good go of it in my final days of PMS, bloating, pimples, cramps, tender breasts, and headaches, without the world enjoying the change more than I do.  I loved slipping quietly into 50 - feeling good about myself and having a wonderful day, blissfully unaware of the world’s changing perspective about my age and me - and I hope to slip just as gracefully into the next phase of life.  So, Menopause bring it on; but be gentle, okay?  I am not as young as I used to be.